To Sir, with Love — Part III: Admonition
by Musikus
Summary: Tom abuses his hall pass. "He swallowed and then breathed in, only to choke on a sob as he was pushed further up against the wall, crushed between cold stone and a hard body, hot breaths ghosting over his neck." [SLASH & AU feat. Tom Riddle and a delicious Professor Harry Potter]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Messrs Potter &amp; Riddle are the intellectual property of JK Rowling. Later on, I intend to sell Riddle's diary; proceeds will be used to purchase at least the aforementioned characters.

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Hot. Heavy. Suffocating. He felt like a lemon, caught between fingers and a palm, slowly being wrung dry. A whimper almost left him as the hand unclenched. He swallowed and then breathed in, only to choke on a sob as he was pushed further up against the wall, crushed between cold stone and a hard body, hot breaths ghosting over his neck.

"Professor—Harry—" _Please._

"Yes?"

"Touch me. Take me. _Fuck_ me."

The kiss burned and he melted, a candle put too close to the fire place. His mind was spinning, the breaths inhaled through the nose not enough to calm him as he was lifted off the ground, the toe of one shoe barely scraping the floor. He rut against his professor as his leg was hooked around a hip, a hand travelling up and down the smooth planes of his thigh.

"Fuck—yes! Oh—please! Fuck—!"

Then all thoughts were knocked out of him as he was slammed once, twice, thrice against the wall; he was released just as one hard pinch was administered to the back of his thigh. The mouth crushed against his swallowed his cry.

Professor Potter stepped back from him, chuckling darkly as he evaded the spit aimed at his eye.

"You'll do well to learn not to accost me in the hallways again, Tom."

His anger dissolved at the look he received over one cold shoulder, and his hand flew to press down between his legs, the other moving to where he knew a bruise was developing.

_You know where and when to find me._

He moaned.


	2. Chapter 2

Three words. Three little words. Three little, overused words that, when taken apart, mean nothing at all: they are mere components to a whole. But put them all together and they have the power to thrill, to excite, to devastate, to destroy. It's all a matter of context.

"Sir," he began, but Professor Potter would have none of his witticism, none of his alibis, none of his disobedience. A raised hand had him silent, the dimness of the room made him alert, the green that met his grey made him burn.

And those three words had him exploding into a million tiny pieces, a glass window shattered by a ball.

He took a step forward, a pale, shuddering pawn called forth by the sheer magnetism of the king. A king he would serve with his hands, on his knees, on his feet, with his mouth, with his body, on silken sheets, on rough carpets, against the cold stone wall, on that large mahogany desk with his cheek pressed against parchment spotted with ink, fingers scratching for purchase, knuckles white, and his back arching for more.

He felt himself scream, the sound muffled by the fingers deftly working his mouth, an oral mockery of intimacy. He felt dirty, like a wanton whore selling herself on the streets, letting herself be lorded over by Man's perverse desires. He wanted it, wanted this—wanted the pounding of hardness on him, against him, inside him.

It was dry, it was relentless. He was wet with sweat, tears, and cum. He had splattered all over himself, encased between wood and his professor, enjoying the burn from both the nearby fireplace and from the heat in his core.

Teeth bit into his shoulder and he mewled into the sheets of parchment as his passage was suddenly left gaping and clenching at nothing, the hard member that brutally pierced through him leaving his weeping body, only to return against the back of his thigh, quivering and shuddering, coating his bruise with hot liquid.

He nearly collapsed, but steady hands held him harder and still against the desk. His protest died as soon as it was formed in his mouth, murdered by the sweep of thick tongue that gently licked down his spine, over the curve of one buttock, down, down, down until it reached the mark on his thigh, lapping at the cum and sweat, at the pain, the sweet kisses that followed more than enough to chase away the sting of embarrassment from his earlier failed attempt at seduction in the hallway.

Tom sighed, blissful in the aftermath of his destruction—the destruction caused by three words:

_Shut the door._


End file.
